


Daddy's Little Girl

by oshunanat



Series: Sylar Victorious [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Sylar Victorious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-15
Updated: 2009-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oshunanat/pseuds/oshunanat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noah is desperate to rescue Claire from Samuel. Sylar takes advantage of the distraction to get the revenge he so desperately seeks.</p><p>First in the Sylar Victorious series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy's Little Girl

It had been a week since Claire had stolen the compass and literally joined the circus.

It had been five days since Gretchen had called Noah to let him know that Claire had stayed and hadn’t returned like she’d promised to, since she’d opened the e-mail that said she planned to stay at least a little while longer.

Lauren had sent some cops to where Gretchen had said they’d been, but it was as if the carnival had never existed. Any and all signs of it had completely vanished. The only sign that anyone had ever been there was the pick-up truck with the corpse in the bed.

Though there was no direct link between the truck and the carnival, for Noah it only confirmed the danger that Samuel posed.

It’d been a week since Claire had stolen the compass and literally joined the circus, and he was no closer to finding her than he had been. He knew Samuel would make his move, he just didn’t know when.

\--

After days of studying maps, of trying to, and failing to find Claire based on the location of her phone he was running out of places to look. During their last call, Lauren had pointedly suggested that he take some time outside the apartment; to get himself a proper meal, to stop thinking. After all, as Lauren had not unreasonably pointed out, it wasn’t as if Samuel could truly harm Claire.

He sighed, eventually deciding that she was right—his apartment was down to some four-day-old leftover lo mein, milk of dubious freshness and a few pieces of fruit, none of which made a satisfying meal. He’d gone out for a few hours to clear his head, get some sun, and a bigger meal than he’d eaten in days. She had been right. It had helped, as had her promise to come over as soon as she could get away. She’d had a key now for a few days. Just until they’d found Claire, he said. Just so she could come and go as she needed when he inevitably hit the road to hunt down Samuel and hopefully kill him. And maybe, just maybe, he hoped, she wouldn’t give back that key after.

Three hours after he set out, he finally returned home, juggling two bags of staples to tide him over until his next venture into the light. It only took two seconds for him to realize that something was wrong; two seconds longer than it should have because the figure that he saw before him shouldn’t have been alive, shouldn’t have been sitting on his bed, venti Starbucks cup in hand, the crumbly remnants of a maple scone spilled out over the bag and onto the duvet, flipping through some of the articles he’d pulled off the bulletin board.

Those two seconds were all it took for him to be flung across the apartment into the wall behind the dining room table, the bags now containing broken eggs, leaky milk and poorly packed and now squashed bread forgotten as he crashed and fell onto the floor, partially cushioned the body of Lauren. Not that it registered as such as first. It only felt oddly soft unlike the hard floor beneath him, but then he found himself levitated briefly. As he was forced into a chair, he looked down and recognized her broken body, her neck broken at an angle that no one beside Claire—or Sylar could ever possibly hope to survive. The blankness of her stare, the empty unblinking eyes told him that she hadn’t.

He wanted to leap out of his seat, wanted to reach for his gun and shoot Sylar’s head off his body once and for all like he’s always thought he should have, but he can’t. He can barely turn his head, and with a little grunt he knows that he can still move his mouth and speak. His fingers wiggle and they try to reach for the gun in its holster, as if his will power can triumph over Sylar’s power, but they only move mere millimeters before Sylar moves up behind him and yanks the gun from the holster, removing the clip before tossing the rest of the gun across the room.

“Just so you don’t get any ideas,” Sylar whispered into his ear before he grabbed Noah’s desk chair and flopped down in it, his feet almost immediately going up atop his desk.

Physically helpless, he did the only thing he still could do: he demanded an answer.

“Why Lauren? She’s like me, she has no power. She’s no use to you.”

Sylar tilted his head, as if confused by the question, but a little glimmer of recognition dawned as he peered over Noah’s shoulder to stare at the body.

“Oh, her name was Lauren? She didn’t exactly introduce herself.” He leaned back, as he stretched his arms and put them behind his head. “I was merely minding my own business, waiting for you to get back and she had the nerve to get all pissy when she saw me sitting in here, demanded to know who I was! Me!” Sylar huffed in irritation, as if the very thought of having to introduce himself was somehow morally offensive.  “Anyway, I couldn’t have anyone ruining our little chat.” He shrugged. “A pity she didn’t have any powers. I could have used something new to feast on.”

Sylar almost sounded wistful at the waste and set his feet down in favor of turning the chair to look more squarely at Noah.

“Not that Parkman and Nathan didn’t have nice ones to nibble on when I wasn’t quite myself,” he added. “It wasn’t quite the same as real food, but you have to take what you can get.” Sylar paused. “You know, you almost seemed surprised to see me! Didn’t anyone warn you?”

Noah stared ahead and said nothing.

Sylar’s laughter rang out in the studio for several moments, but never out of control enough for Noah to gain any kind of edge, to gain back any more movement of his own body.

“Oh that is **rich**,” Sylar said as his chuckles died down. “So much for friends watching out for each other!” Though the laughter was gone, a smile still split his face. “Then again, I suppose that Parkman is busy on his knees trying to convince his wife that he really isn’t crazy or suicidal and the dead tow-truck driver was just a complete misunderstanding and Angela I’m sure is busy planning Nathan’s funeral. “

He tilted his head once more, pushed the chair back from the desk, stood up and was soon in Noah’s face.

 “Do you think she’ll be nice enough to plan yours? It _would_ give her something to do while I wait for the right time to kill her other son. I’ll kill Peter and then…who knows. I had planned on killing her too, but they do say that a parent should never outlive their children.

Then again, Nathan’s own memories told me that Nathan was her favorite and maybe Peter’s death won’t be as hard to absorb. You’re a father, Noah! What do you think?”

Sylar was now kneeling so that he was eye to eye, a curious look on his face, as if he truly was interested in his answer.

Noah spat in Sylar’s face. It was a petty act that would change nothing, but it still felt good to do something when he couldn’t do anything.

Sylar laughed and wiped the spittle off with the back of his sleeve.

“You still have some spirit in you! That’s the Bennet I remember so fondly!” The sarcasm dripped off Sylar’s tongue. “I might even miss it. But enough of the small talk, I’ve got a lot to do and tick-tick, time’s a-wasting!”

Something collided with his head and then he knew no more.

\--

Consciousness came back to him in stages. First, he noted that everything _hurt_, from his head to his chest to his legs. He blinked, shook his head, and blinked once more. His vision returned, albeit mostly blurry. He could make out dark blotches that were very likely to be bruises. It was then he realized that he was no longer frozen to a chair, but rather lying on his soft bed. If he shifted, he could feel the crumbs from Sylar’s earlier treat.

He tried to push himself up, tried to get out of bed and call _someone_, something wasn’t right that he was alone, that Sylar hadn’t killed him. All the thoughts of who he should call and what he should do were stopped when he was gently (but firmly) pushed back down on the bed. His world got brighter as his glasses were replaced on his face, and suddenly the blur that represented a person came into focus.

Claire. He couldn’t believe his eyes, couldn’t believe that his missing girl had suddenly appeared before him.

“Claire! My Claire Bear! You can’t stay here. Sylar—“

“Sylar ‘s gone, for now at least. I told Samuel I needed a few days to decide what I wanted to do and got a ride home. I found him as he was…” she trailed off, a pained look on her face. “I managed to stop him, for now at least.”

If he lifted his head up he could see where some dried blood remained on her face, and only the trace hint of freshly healed skin that disappeared when he blinked once more.

“How long have I been out?” He struggled to sit up again. She pushed him right back down. He didn’t bother hiding his wince. He always tried to be strong for Claire, but he was too tired, and too injured to make the effort right now. “And Lauren?”

“Rene’s handling it. Now **relax**. Let me take care of you.” As she spoke, she pushed his shirt aside—she must have unbuttoned it while he was still out—revealing a panoply of cuts and bruises, some looking like they might still be barely bleeding.

“Claire you don’t have to do this…”

She gave him that “father’s can be so clueless look” that he’d seen more times than he’d care to count.  “Dad. How many times have you helped me? You’re hurt. You were nearly **killed** by Sylar. Let me take care of you for once.”

She pulled off the rag momentarily to fluff up his pillows, and then with a wry grin and a “since you won’t stay put” helped him to a seated position.

“Okay, fine. You win.” He tried to laugh, but like most of the other movements he made, it just made everything ache more, but amazingly enough, it didn’t feel as if anything was truly broken. She must have gotten there sooner than he’d thought. It was hard to tell what time it was. He’d gone out late and dusk wasn’t too far away when he’d returned home, darkness meant nothing.   “My bed is infinitely more comfortable than a hospital bed.”




“Exactly,” Claire agreed.  “And if we can avoid putting you in one, so much the better.” He watched her dip a clean wash cloth in a dish of water. “I called mom, by the way. She’s got a ticket for the first flight tomorrow. “

“And your school work?”

Claire rolled her eyes as she none-too-gently laid the warm washcloth on his chest. “I had no tests or exams last week. Everything was due before Thanksgiving. Now would you let me clean you up?” Not that she waited for an answer, beginning to clean the grime and muck from his body.

“I can take a shower. I’m not infirm.”

She gave him another Look. Too tired to keep fighting, he raised his hands.

“Okay. Maybe you’re right.” He leaned back into the nest of pillows. They were pretty comfortable. Things settled into silence as Claire washed the blood off his abdomen and slowly began to move up his chest, the movement of the wash cloth seeming to slow down more and more as she reached his chest, the cloth seeming to center itself on his nipple, the moist heat feeling good against his aches. She began making little circles, like scrubbing, but not. He bit his lip. It felt **good**.

The wrong kind of good.

“Claire…it’s clean.”

“Oh.” He would have sworn that she **pouted** except why would she pout over such a thing? It made no sense. He was trying to figure out what that meant when the refreshed washcloth found his other nipple and started the slow, deliberate motions there.

“Is this really necessary Claire?” he hoped the little hitch in his breath hadn’t been noticeable.

She said nothing, but instead straddled him, the bottom of her skirt brushing up against his pants.

“Skirt?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the way that her whole body seemed to rock against him unnecessarily as she cleaned a cut on his collarbone.

She smiled brightly at him. “One of the carnies gave it to me. My clothes were already not doing so hot after 21 hours in the car, and then the thought of wearing them for another five days in a row?” She made a face. “No thanks, especially after helping with the chores.”

He stared at her. This couldn’t be his daughter.

“Chores? You actually did them?”

Chores were a safe topic, a topic that didn’t lead down the path of bad thoughts. Claire apparently decided that his torso was clean enough and instead settled onto his lap, taking too much time to make herself comfortable.

She shrugged. “I was a guest in their home. You and mom always said to pitch in if you’re staying over! And…they’d all been so nice to me. They let me stay with them, fed me, kept me entertained. Pitching in to help pick up trash and tidy seemed the least I could do.”She tossed the cloth toward the bowl. “But hearing about me covered in dust as I tried—and failed to help with some of the heavy lifting isn’t **really** what you want is it?” She moved against him again, not nearly as subtle this time, as if she didn’t trust her own innuendo, her hands moved to remove her top and revealed a skimpy little white sports bra that left nothing to the imagination underneath.

He put his hands on her hips to still her. He wanted to lift her up and off him, but he didn’t have the strength to do so, he still felt so tired, like his arms didn’t quite want to obey him. Lack of broken bones or not, Sylar had done his job well.

“Claire. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but **no**. This is wrong. I don’t need that kind of comfort, least of all from you!”

This time she did pout at him, she looked honest-to-goodness hurt.  “Dad, you almost DIED. You haven’t  dated since you and mom broke up and did I mention that you almost DIED. Let me do this for you.” She smiled, the smile containing a wickedness that he never remembered seeing on her face before, demonstrating her full knowledge of what it was that she was suggesting. For all that his daughter would always be his little girl, however, the display atop of him was a reminder that she was a **woman** suddenly bringing the two truths into sharp relief. 

And she was a beautiful woman.

Maybe he didn’t know Claire as well as he thought. He’d kept his secrets hidden well; maybe he’d rubbed off on her more than he knew.

He was brought out of that line of thought when she moved a little further down, and opened his pants to palm him. The look on her face was almost….curious. Curious because of general inexperience, or if she somehow expected him to be different than other men he wasn’t sure. The look of desire and determination never left her face, and soon her strokes grew more confident, more sure.

And he responded. He knew that it was physical response to the stimuli, but he hated himself for it. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t mind that the added pressure only made his head hurt more. He welcomed the pain. The pain was a welcome distraction.

Claire’s grip tightened around him, the new pain forcing them open. Her bra was now off, her pert, plump breasts begging to be touched and played with, an open invitation. An invitation he wanted to refuse. An invitation that became a demand when as she picked up his hands and placed them there. His fingers began to move of their own accord pinching and rolling her nipples in experimentation, sometimes hard, sometimes soft, all to see what kind of gasps and moans he could draw out of her.

“Yesssss,” she had stopped talking in favor of soft moans, her head tilted back and her back arched to make it even easier to for him to play with her. And God help him, he **wanted** to play with her. Every few seconds when she brought her head back down to look at him, he found himself transfixed by the desire in her eyes that seemed to continually beckon to him, to call to him. And he was male, and oh-so human.

He brought his head forward, and before he could stop himself he wrapped his lips around her pert nipples and he sucked.

“Oh, Dad, just like that.  Do you know how long I’ve wanted this? How long it’s been since I noticed you looking at me this way?”

The reminder that this was his **daughter** was enough to cause him to hesitate, to stop.

_Why did you stop?_

 He thought that Claire had said something, but she was just looking at him expectantly, a look that turned to annoyance when he stayed still, frozen in his indecision.

With a click of her tongue, she climbed off of him, and her skirt and skimpy little thong quickly joined her shirt and bra on the floor. As his eyes became transfixed at the sight of her fully nude, he made no effort to resist as she pushed his pants and his boxers to his knees.

“I said I’d take care of you, Dad, and I mean it.”

She straddled him once more this time centering herself right over his hard cock.

He had to make one last attempt to stop her. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t.

“Claire, please consider what you’re doing. Once you’ve done this you can’t go back. Stop now, we can pretend this never happened.”

She looked at him, her familiar innocent smile on her face once more. “Why would I want to do that?”

And with that, she slowly began to lower herself onto him.

Oh god she was so wet, so hot, so _tight_.

Almost too tight.

_No. It can’t mean what I think it does._

 He looked at Clare and saw the concentration on her face, she’s going as slow as she is for a reason and then he felt it, felt something give inside her and with horror he realized that he just took his daughter’s **virginity**.

_What have I done?_

His mouth felt dry and his mind has lost interest again, even as slow but smooth movement kept his body interested.

“Oh my god!” She gasped as she started moving up. “You know, when I was still in high school I once saw you and Mom in the shower together. I always wondered what it would feel like to be in her place, you filling me and taking me slowly and oh it’s everything that I ever could imagine and then some. Why didn’t I do this sooner? ”

A strangled moan left his lips, the pleasure of her actions mixing with the pain of her words and his deeds.

She’d very nearly pulled out and began moving down again, a little more

“Claire,” he groaned, his protests sounded less like protests and more like encouragement as she rode him harder, faster, developing a rhythm that seemed to please her even as she remained completely oblivious to his distress.  “Claire,** _please_**.”

_Please stop? Please more? Please faster? Please slower?_ That voice was speaking again, That voice he could not identify as his own, or Claire’s or his conscience’s.

He dared to look in Claire’s eyes once more.

The wicked smile was back on her face, her face euphoric; her breath coming out in shallow pants as she used him for her pleasure.

  
“Touch me,” she demanded. “Need you to touch me!”

His hand moved to stroke her clit in a rhythm matching her strokes, anything to end this fast, end it now. His fingers moved mechanically, not that Claire seemed to notice or to care.  Her motions became more erratic as she grew closer to her orgasm. He felt her clenching around him, and tried to shut his eyes so he couldn’t watch her anymore, so he didn’t have to see that look on her face as she finally climaxed, but instead he watched every last millisecond, watched as her sweat-slick body began to shudder, her eyes closed tight as the pleasure washed over her, a sight more erotic than Sandra had ever been, even when they first met.

The shame of finding his **_daughter_** sexier than his wife, combined with her actions, finally brought on his own orgasm. As he emptied himself into her, he grabbed her, pulling her close, biting down on her shoulder trying to muffle the sob that he couldn’t stop from escaping.

Claire reached to pull him closer, her arm wrapping him in some kind of cruel mockery of parental concern. Tilting his head up, she kissed him slowly, tenderly. When she finally broke the kiss, her smile was so cold, so cruel. The whisper in his ear was downright icy.

“Thank you, Bennet.”

A chill ran down his spine.

Utterly defeated, he collapsed against the stack of pillows on the bed, not even noticing as Claire—no, Sylar—slide off of him.

“Why?”

Sylar, now back in his own body, busied himself belting up his pants as he headed back towards the desk chair.

“I used to see the way that you looked at her, that strange look of parental lust. I had to find out for myself if you’d go through with it!” Sylar laughed and gave him a slow clap. “And you did not disappoint! I wonder what your dear Sanrda would say if she’d seen your little performance just now. I should have taped it and sent it to her as a birthday gift.”  Sylar smirked as he flopped bonelessly into the chair, his sex-mussed hair obscuring his eyes, but not enough to completely obscure the amusement in those brown eyes.  “Oh well, they do say hind-sight is twenty-twenty.” The amusement faded fast and he checked his watch, as if Sylar was late for something. “I’m afraid that our play time has come to an end.”

 There was almost something like sorrow in Sylar’s eyes. “ Goodbye, Noah .”

Simple words said without sarcasm or mockery. He liked to think it was out of respect. Noah closed his eyes.

Sylar had won.

As his world went black, the bitterness of resentment and resignation gave wave to the coppery taste of his own blood.

He had lost.


End file.
